NS March 5th, 2010
I sometimes (okay, frequently) forsake opportunities to interact or play with my children in order to read blogs, books or articles about the more abstract aspects of parenting. I think this might mean I’m more interested in intellectually analysing motherhood than performing the duties associated with it. And I only feel a tiny bit guilty about that.
NS January 15th, 2010
Do we really need to see photos of dead bodies in Haiti?
No, I mean it. Do we really need to see them to make us understand what’s going on there, how much devastation and human suffering are flowing through the broken, dusty streets? Do we need to see a dead schoolgirl crushed by concrete at her desk? Do we need to see a grieving, wailing father holding his dead child in his arms? Do we need to see bloody arms and footless shoes and a mother with her arms raised up into the air, knowing that at that exact moment her heart was being ripped from her chest, put through the wringer of tragedy and returned to her, broken and forever shadowed by her loss?
But now, particularly since I’ve had children, I find looking at photos like the one above, from the New York Daily News, very difficult and almost voyeuristic. Who am I that I should be seeing this man’s face as he holds his dead child to his chest? Then again, who am I to protest that I don’t want to see it?
If we’d just read the headlines, with no photos, would we care as much? If we hadn’t seen the faces of the people who survived, those who are homeless and injured and searching for missing loved ones, would we be digging into our pockets to give them whatever money we are able to?
I’m divided on this issue. As a journalism student at university, I sat through many an ethics lecture. I even took an entire class devoted to the ethics of covering tragedies and natural disasters. Every time we debated a controversial photo, the room was divided: half of us thought it was unethical, gratuitous, unnecessary, sensationalist; the other half thought they were a necessary, often useful evil. What better way to get people’s attention and make them understand what’s happening than to let the images do the talking? Why write three pages trying to describe the devastation when one picture says it all? Isn’t it a journalist’s responsibility to fully report and visually convey the situation they’re covering?
I used to think it was. I was in the latter group, the ones who, though saddened and disturbed by some of the more graphic photos, found they helped the public more fully understand the situation and emotionally connect to the subjects. Especially in incidents where survivors need help and donations, using photos to convey the urgency of the situation is appealing. And it works. Studies have shown that people give more when they are confronted with images of human suffering; they just aren’t as interested if what they’re presented with is an abstract thought, a far-away problem in some far-away place.
But that still begs the question: is it ethical? Is it right to put human suffering in all its raw immediacy on the front page, especially when a newspaper is making a profit from the sales of that image? Does it disgrace and dishonour those whom it portrays? Or does it tell the stories of those in the photos; let everyone know that they are there — hurting, bleeding, grieving, dying…but there?
I’m still not sure. My journalism roots say we need to see this, we need to care. But then I find myself, in the last few days of doing my day job (in which I have to look at dozens of newspapers’ front pages), doing my work with tears streaming down my face and my stomach churning. Another foot. Another arm. Another parent’s child, crushed by chaos. Another man’s struggle to clear debris while looking for his wife or sister, furiously digging with his bare hands, looking for a scrap of clothing or an inch of flesh that he recognises.
This is death, as viewed through a lens. Should we put the cap back on it and leave those mourning in Haiti their privacy, or should we continue to stare down the tragedy telescope in the hopes that it convinces others to donate?
What are your thoughts?
NS January 8th, 2010
“What do you want to be when you grow up?” I asked The Noble Child a couple days ago.
“A princess! A horse! Or a doctor. Ooh, I know, a fire fighter!”
“Fantastic! All great choices.”
“And what do you want to be, Mummy?”
If only I knew, my child. If only.
I’m 30 and rapidly approaching a fourth full year of unemployment outside the home. For the past year I have been doing a small freelance job, every day for about 1.5-2 hours in the afternoon, but aside from that all my child and house-related work is done pro bono. Aren’t I charitable?
So it’s time. 2010 is the year of Returning To Work, I’ve decided. Certainly by the time TNC starts primary school in the autumn, I will either be employed in some capacity or actively searching. Line up childcare, get job, forge new career, meet new people, be intellectually challenged and pull in some extra cash so my family can do things like go out for the occasional meal or take the odd holiday without it being a bank-balance-busting exercise in stress and futility. Sounds simple, right? I wish.
Because as ’simple’ as it might be to just go out and get a job working for someone else, I’d still like to give working for myself a try. Working for someone else won’t allow me any time to develop my writing skills or run my websites or work on my book proposal. Working for someone else, on their terms and schedule and pay scale, is a daunting and almost frightening prospect after all these years. Interviews, commuting, office politics, office gossip, Christmas parties where you get drunk and embarrass yourself (or is that only me?)…these are things I haven’t done since I was in my mid-twenties, footloose and fancy-free.
Mostly, my apprehension is because I know what people say about working mothers behind their backs and sometimes even to their faces. I know that even once I’ve gone through the arduous task of getting a job, made all the more difficult by my gender and parental status, many of my non-parent co-workers will grumble and roll their eyes and think it highly unfair when I have to take the day off to care for a sick child or leave early once a week to pick them up from childcare. I know that I will likely be passed over for promotions and special projects because I can’t commit to the longer, extra hours. If I were to decide to have another baby, I’d have to deal with sorting out maternity leave, time off for antenatal appointments and the inevitable physical ailments and discomforts of pregnancy, knowing that my risk of being sacked or made redundant would grow along with my belly, plus the feeling of being a ‘disappointment’ or a ‘liability’ to the company’s bottom line because of my reproductive choices.
The stress of working somewhere else all day and then having to rush around to pick up the children, get them home, fed, bathed and to bed before I could even begin to think about doing anything for myself, my other interests, the household or my marriage makes my blood run cold. I see and hear and read about tons of other women doing it, and incredibly well to boot, but I suddenly feel incapable, inept and insecure when I contemplate doing it myself. I then accuse myself of being pampered, lazy and cowardly, despite knowing full well that staying at home with my children and running one or two independent businesses concurrently has its own special set of hellish stresses and responsibilities that perhaps women who work outside the home would view with the same mixture of dread, jealousy and awe with which I view theirs.
Does it all have to be so complicated?
More options begin running through my head. I could spend this month and next launching my new website, get everything up and running smoothly and work on getting myself back into the blogging groove after my long Christmas-period break. Then come March, I could really give freelance journalism an earnest try, despite the warnings from more seasoned pros that I probably have a better chance of being struck by lightning while driving an SUV to a Miley Cyrus concert (i.e. highly bloody unlikely). It couldn’t hurt to try, right? But again, that little voice in the back of my mind whispers: But what if you fail? What if you’re not good enough, or experienced enough, or can’t even get your foot in the bloody door (the editor’s inbox)? How will you justify all that money spent on your two days of paid childcare, just frittered away on a hopeless pipe dream? How crushed and humiliated will you feel if you don’t sell a single article in those few months? How will you face your husband when he comes home after a 12 hour day and you’ve not made a penny? How long can you keep kidding yourself that you’re ever going to become a successful journalist?
That voice is annoying. And pessimistic. And horrible. I know this. But still, it comes, usually at night when I’m lying in the dark trying to fall asleep and a thousand thoughts and worries are racing around and colliding in my head.
Then I tell myself that on the positive side, if by June or July the freelance thing looked like it might bring in some income, even if not substantial, I could go ahead and do the doula and childbirth educator training I’ve been thinking of doing for the past couple years so that I’m ready to begin teaching classes and attending births (and earning money) by the end of the calendar year. That way I’d have two different careers, both done independently and from home, one of which would hopefully pick up the slack when clients/jobs were lean. This would allow me to stay at home, even if I needed to pay for part-time childcare, and a) be more present for my children, b) earn some money for our household and c) keep writing and working on my personal projects while pursuing my career ambitions until I’m ready to return to the kinds of jobs that require so much more of me than I think I can give right now.
Just to complete the wishy-washiness trifecta, I then waver back the other way and think that I should just forget about all of this freelance and doula malarkey and just get a job when TNC starts school and have the stability of a steady, known income and someone else to worry about covering for me when I’m sick and figuring out how much tax I owe. If I knew I could get a decently-paid and interesting job at an activist organisation doing something that I’m passionate about, I’d do it in a heartbeat. But I’d be competing for the kinds of jobs that usually go to graduates fresh out of university, willing to do unpaid internships and work until the job is done, no matter how late, and to attend parties and functions to woo clients and donors or persuade MPs. Who is going to hire a 30-year-old mother of two who has been out of the workforce for 4-5 years and who only has as much work experience in her field as someone who was born a decade later; someone willing to work for less than the living wage just to get their foot in the door because they’re still living with their parents and aren’t paying a mortgage, bills, school fees, pension plans, etc..?
See? It’s never-ending. Each pro has two cons and vice versa. I can’t seem to make up my mind what I’d like to do most, or what is most realistic. And I struggle with focusing on one choice and going for it instead of considering three or four and never doing anything about them because there are too many options.
This is why I pour a large glass of red wine every Friday night and fold myself into my cosy armchair, full of dreams, fears, possibilities and uncertainties. I usually reserve these thoughts only for my personal wallowing sessions, but tonight, in desperation, I’m pinging it over to you. If anyone has any light to shed, experiences to share or suggestions to give, I’m all ears!
NS December 23rd, 2009
My sister is here visiting and we’ve been busy catching up, going out, preparing for Christmas and just spending time together as a family, hence the silence for the past week. But I wanted to do a quick update for everyone who commented and emailed after my last post, which ended on a pretty miserable note. The Noble Husband went into work the day after I wrote about him losing his contract and was called into a meeting with his boss. It looks like they will be able to keep him on at their offices after Christmas, even though in a different capacity and without overtime. So while his job is secure at the moment, if he can’t squeeze a bit of extra money out of them he will be on a bit less pay then he was before. Still, it’s not as doom and gloom as we originally thought and is a pretty big relief, considering the stark alternative.
Posting will continue to be sporadic and light until after the New Year as not only is my sister here visiting until the 6th and TNH is off work until the 4th, but I’m also working on launching another website, the details of which I will share as soon as it’s all been ironed out and finished up. In the meantime, I wish you all a very Merry Christmas and peace and joy this holiday season.
I’d also like to thank you all for reading and commenting on my scribblings in this teeny little corner of the blogosphere; interacting with you and getting feedback on my writing, not to mention the incredible ‘real life’ support I’ve received, is one of the real bright spots in my life and something I truly cherish. Your readership, along with being listed as a top parenting blog in both the Tots 100 Index and by media communications company Cision in the last few months, has really bolstered my confidence that maybe I really can do this writing malarkey for a living, which is pretty much my lifelong dream. So from the bottom of my newly-Santified heart, I thank you.
Now stop reading this and go be festive and merry! Drink and eat too much, laugh ’til your sides hurt and your pelvic floor feels like it might give, and file away in your heart’s memory this time spent with your loved ones and the looks of contentment and joy on their faces. See you in 2010!
NS December 7th, 2009
Subsequent to the last post published here, which was from an anonymous guest blogger and was a continuation of a meme involving writing letters to our 16-year-old selves, I decided that I’d like to do one myself. But when I tried to think of what wisdom I should impart to my teenaged self, I realised that the one I’d like to give the most advice to is my 11-year-old self. So if you’ll excuse this bending of the rules, read on.
___________________________________________________________
Dear A****,
It’s been two years since your younger sister died. Your mother still cries at random intervals and at others closes herself off from everyone around her, retreating into a shell of grief, rage and sorrow, the blackness and depths of which you will hopefully never experience yourself. Though you grieve too, know that her grief is different from yours – all-encompassing, far-reaching and infinte. You alternate between helplessness and uncertainty — wishing you could do or say something to soothe her burning heart — and self-righteousness and anger, feeling that your childhood is merely being gotten through and survived rather than treasured and observed. Be patient with her. She still loves you. This will make you stonger.
You struggle to know your place in the family now that you are no longer the middle child but the youngest. Every time you argue with one of your parents you weep afterwards, either with regret that you upset them further or with a bitter indignation that you should be worrying about their feelings instead of your own and tiptoeing around the hole in your family where your sister used to be. Allow yourself to be selfish at times without beating yourself up with guilt; you’ve faced some harsh realities in life already and selflessness isn’t a prerequisite to being a good person, especially when you are a child.
You will think that your older sister is perfect and that everyone wants you to be more like her, with her straight As and ‘nice’ friends and involvement in school activities. You will not do as well in school as she does, mostly out of laziness and partly out of boredom, but a) don’t think you aren’t smart just because you don’t have perfect grades and b) don’t mistake good grades for a goody two-shoes — your older sister is one of the most fun, funniest and most generous people you will ever meet so don’t think you have nothing in common with her or that you’ll never be friends. She will eventually become so dear to your heart and such an invaluable confidante that you couldn’t imagine your life without her.
You are starting to realise, even though it’s not really discussed, that your parents are having money problems. Both of them are working, and will continue to work, part-time jobs on top of their full-time ones in order to give you and and your older sister the things you want and need. You will cry when, next year on your birthday, your dad gives you a card made from a brown paper bag with a picture of a stereo taped to the inside with a note from him promising that after just a few more payments, it will be yours. You will keep that card forever and look at it whenever you think of what it means to sacrifice for love. It will also quell the rampant consumerism that threatens to completely take over many teens and sow the seeds of minimalism and ‘making do’ that you try to live by later in life.
One night later this year, when you’re at a sleepover at one of your close friend’s house, she and two other close friends will confide a deep, dark secret to you. They will ask you for your help and you will know what to do. You will hold them as they cry and understand when they retreat emotionally, because the messenger often gets shot. You will talk to child psychologists and police officers as their abuser goes to trial. You will receive a threatening phone call from him before he begins his prison sentence, which will have you looking over your shoulder for the next ten years.
In your teenage years you will watch two of these friends struggle to understand their sexuality and confuse sex with love and acceptance; the other will go through severe anorexia and body dysmorphia and you will have to unplug her treadmill before she passes out in the midst of an exercise frenzy. This will be your first taste of what sexual violence does to girls and women, and of the severe consequences that last a lifetime. You will get angry. Don’t be afraid of that anger; hold onto it but learn to understand and control it — it will lead you to a passion for social justice and activism for women and, aside from writing, will be your life’s calling.
The writing, the writing, the writing. You have just started writing poetry in the journal your parents gave you for Christmas. It sparks something urgent and indescribable in the depths of your soul and you will spend countless hours in the years ahead with a pen gripped between your fingers and your back hunched over a sheaf of papers and, later, a keyboard. Your classmates, teachers and family will soon start to tell you that you’re good at it and encourage you to write more. This will result in speech awards, poetry and articles published in the school paper and, eventually, eulogies for two of your friends at their funerals. You will dream of writing a book that touches and inspires people, of having such a way with words that people get lost inside them, moved to tears or action or both. You will discover that you want to see the world and change it and will begin planning your global travels and humanitarian work. As it stands now, you won’t have quite made it there on either count but don’t let that deter you. Both are great goals.
Pretty soon you will begin going to parties and drinking and, when you are about 17, experimenting with drugs. You will have an absolute whale of a time and make some great memories, but when someone at a party offers you a powdered white substance on a mirror, turn them down. Walk away and never look back, because you come so close to losing yourself to it. You’ll know it’s time to stop when you do it in the morning before class, pawn your jewellery and cry when you run out. Learn how to have a good time but don’t ever let yourself creep out on that ledge again. Many people aren’t so lucky as to talk themselves down.
If you think life is all doom and gloom — don’t. In 10 years’ time you will be married to a wonderful Englishman and living in London. Yes, THAT London, and it will be as fabulous as you could possibly imagine. Five years after that you will become a mother for the first time and begin a new phase in your life. Two and a half years after your daughter arrives, you will give birth to your son, unmedicated, in your dining room (yes, it will be planned that way!) and it will be the most intense, primal and spiritual thing you have ever experienced. Don’t be afraid or embarrassed of this — it will change you and give you physical and mental strength you didn’t know you had. After you’ve done that you will feel you can do anything.
You will find mothering challenging, exasperating, depressing, thrilling, fulfilling and about five thousand different kinds of wonderful. You will beat yourself up when you err or lose your temper or fail to live up to expectations you have been conditioned to believe must be met, but don’t waste the energy. You will love your children and do the best you can with what you’ve got and, really, that’s all that matters.
Be well. Look after yourself. Have fun. Be a child. Never stop caring about others and never stop using your voice, in your life and in your writing, to try to affect change. You may not think they matter, but they do. Oh, how they do.
Love,
Me (30 years and five-and-a-half months)
